Creepy Old Dude Seeks Young Pretty Girl to Make Him Feel Cool for a Weekend is not exactly a new concept – but every once in a while, a freshly emboldened COD arrives on the scene and takes things to a whole new level of weird. Enter Gordan.

Fifty-six-year-old Gordan aka Gordie is fresh out of a job and an eleven-year marriage and is looking to have some fun - JUST FUN! – in VIP land at Coachella…with a 19-25-year-old female. Because, of course. What is not so of course is his admirably specific set of criteria - and very suspicious utilization of quotation marks. Just take a look at the intro:

COACHELLA VIP WEEKEND 1 PASS: free for the right personOk here’s the deal. I have a VIP Pass for Weekend 2. I’m willing to give it away for free to the right person. I’m looking for a travel “companion” that can enjoy the festival with me and just have a good time. I left my job as Supervising Manager at Soup Plantation and subsequently divorced my wife of 11 years. I cashed out my 401k and decided that moving forward, my life is all about having fun! No more team meetings, no more employee evaluations, no more balance sheets, no more darn conference calls at 7am. JUST FUN! I have a room at the Tropics Motor Motel in Indio Thursday through Monday. If you believe you can meet the below criteria, please shoot me an email and describe why you think you make the best fit. I appreciate your time and look forward to finding the right “one”!

I know. WHAT ARE YOU EVEN SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THAT?? I did the only thing that made any logical sense to me at the time…and responded to the ad:

Dear Gordie –

Is it okay if I call you Gordie?? Given that we might be jumping straight into temporary cohabitation, it seems a bit silly to dwell on formalities. Let's get right to it, shall we?

There’s a lot to unpack in your post (Detail-oriented! I love that in man.), so it’s probably easiest if I take it line by line. First, I applaud your decision to snag tix for Weekend 2. Definitely the more grown-up weekend. That shows a maturity and confidence echoed by your recent assertive moves in marriage and occupation. How long were you at Soup Plantation? What did you guys talk about during those darn 7am conference calls?! What happens when that 401k runs out?? You’re a mysterious guy, G, and I am VERY intrigued. As far as your ex-wife is concerned, what happened there? I know you said you did the divorcing, so I’m curious as to the possible volatility of that relationship. I don’t want to walk into a crazy stalker ex situation, especially considering the limited security of an RV, ya know? Speaking of security, I’m feeling a bit insecure about those quotation marks surrounding both companion and one. I assume there’s a wink involved, but I’m not entirely sure what you’re insinuating. Are you predicting a closeness that extends past simple companionship? (I hope so, because I am, too!!) Is that “one” a projection of your appreciation of a multi-faceted personality? If so, don’t you worry, I definitely have one of those. I can even get a note from my therapist to prove it HAHA. (I like that I feel like I can joke with you already! That’s such a good sign.) Now, on to your criteria!

1. Must be female between the ages of 19 and 25. One of the things I admired most about your ad was your unabashed honesty - and I don’t want to mislead you - so I feel like I should admit that I’m not 19-25. I’m 32. BUT I have a v girlish appearance, take excellent care of my skin, and am a master with youth-infusing filters. Also, I’m able to drink legally, so you won’t have to worry about finding me a fake ID or, like, getting my mom to sign a permission slip. SO MANY PERKS. 2. Must be comfortable traveling in a Recreational Vehicle (Vintage Shasta Chinook 3100 – pic attached). Oh, that looks super comfy!! Just so long as you don’t take any turns too fast, I should be just fine. (I get a little motion sick sometimes, but I think that’s really just a product of my delicate femininity. And I’m sure a manly man like you could make me feel better right away!) Sidenote: Can we get Shasta beverages to drink en route?! I love a good theme – they can be the flavor to our FUN! Haha.3. Must have fashionable sense of style in the vein of typical coachella goer (i.e. cute indian headband, small ripped jean shorts, lots of colorful bracelets, etc). Okay, on this one, I think we can do so much better. You’re above that cheesy, overplayed stuff! And only a$$holes wear Indian “headbands” TBH. I’m thinking maybe we match?! Or at least coordinate our colors and schematics, so everyone knows we belong together. (As if that won’t be apparent enough from the start :))4. Preferably have a playlist of various Coachella artists on phone we can listen to on ride over. I just made you a Spotify account, so I can share the playlist with you. (Ten bucks a month? Worth it.) Start listening now so can sing along together in the car!! Already picturing super cute moments like this one in Walk to Remember with Mandy Moore and Shane West: https://youtu.be/CGyVRnXl3PQ?t=50s. Note to self: Bring temporary tattoos!5. Must keep hands and feet moisturized at all times. Duh! Especially in that desert heat. Lush has some scented options that are supposed to spark romance, so I’ll be sure to stock up!6. Must be open-minded and opportunistic. I think it’s pretty obvious that anyone replying to your post is both of those things. No shame, more gain!7. Must be ok with periodic hand-holding (perhaps during certain sensual songs and while walking into the festival initially). Holding hands is one of my favorite hobbies! Look, it even says so in one of my online bios! I knew we were so in sync. One thing – can you maybe give me some examples of songs you find sensual? Just to make sure our in sync-ness extends to music as well. I wouldn’t want to…leave you hanging. (Get it? Hahaha.)8. Fingernails and Toenails must be nicely painted and harmonious with general color scheme of outfit. Do you prefer standard polish or gels? And if it’s standard polish, is it okay if I wear the same color all weekend or would you prefer if I changed it with each outfit? Whichever way is cool – my nail beds are your nail beds! Also, what do you think about metallic nails for yourself? It’s such a cool trend for guys! Let me know – I can bring some color options for you.9. I will provide snacks such as beef jerky and peanut butter sandwiches but if you have additional snacks and/or drinks…BIG BONUS! You don’t need to tell me twice! (Though you've already covered the best ones.) I’ll buy extra, just in case we make any (female) friends at the Tropics.10. Being social is fine but no excessive fraternizing with other male festival-goers, and most definitely NO PUBLIC AFFECTION with other festival-goers (violation of this rule results in immediate removal of Tropic Motor Motel room privileges and maybe even return ride). So just to be clear, you *aren’t* into the girl on girl action thing…?11. Periodic moments of extended eye contact. Just warning you – I’ve never lost a staring contest. But for reals, I read this one article that said you can fall in love with anyone if you gaze into their eyes for long enough periods of time. I’m so in! (Not that we’ll need any help on that front, of course.)12. Allow me to brush your hair once per day (not mandatory, but encouraged). I love this – my dad used to brush my hair when I was little. I hope that doesn’t make it weird!!13. Must not be into drugs, pot ok. Whatever we do, I just want us to do it together. This weekend is all about US.14. Must take a minimum of four photos of us together and post them to your Instigram account. Oops – just so you know, the correct spelling is Instagram. (But also just so you know, I would never correct you in public. I have way too much respect for your intelligence/masculinity.) And of course!! I’ve already made us a joint account – @GordieNStace4ever. So far there’s just a #tbt pic of me doodling on my junior high notebook. I’m pretending I was writing your name all over it hehe.15. Any personal grooming such as toenail clipping, eyebrow plucking or lipstick application must be done in my presence. But Gordie, I want to always look my best for you. Isn’t it sometimes better when there’s a little mystique in a relationship? Besides, I want to leave some surprises for when we’re married! Or maybe just after we’ve been living together for five years or more, if you’re not looking to take another trip down the aisle. No pressure!!16. At least once during festival, you must allow me to carry you on my shoulders so you can see stage better (perfect time for instigram photo!) *Instagram ;) You are such a gentleman! (My mom totally agrees. She said my dad used to carry her on his shoulders – before his back got too weak. You’re obviously super strong, though. Can’t wait to show off those muscles in an Insta story!!!)17. At least twice during the festival you must tell me in a playful manner that “I am naughty”. Can we maybe pick a different word? I’ve just had some bad experiences involving that particular adjective in the past. Not all guys are as amazing as you are - or can deliver potentially pervy phrases with such finesse!!!18. At some point in time during the festival you must tell me that “you didn’t know how this would go, but you’re actually having a really good time”. No problem! I’ll feel a little weird lying to you, though – because I already know I am going to have a GREAT time! JUST FUN right?!?!19.At least once during our stay after your shower, you must use the steam to write a cute message on the bathroom mirror for me to find later when I shower. What a cute romantic idea!!! You are such a secret softie. What else are you cooking up in that sweet, special (comma brilliant!) mind of yours?!? I can’t wait to find out *hugs*20. Must be ready to party and HAVE FUN!This is a once in a lifetime opportunity and as mentioned, an all expenses paid trip. If you think you’re the one, let me know and we can have a great time together. My name is Gordon and I am 56 years old from West Covina. Best, Gordie Please see #’s 1-19 ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;)

Can’t wait to take part in this once in a lifetime opportunity!!! Coachella here we come!!!

People like him look at a café chair and see one thing – a place to sit. So when they spot a solo-riding chick set up across from an empty one (especially an empty one in the prime corner of the patio), they view that practical piece of wood/or metal as free for the taking. Sure, they’ll go through the motions of asking if they can use it, but they’re not really asking. Just try telling them no. What they don’t get is that, to (neurotic) (OCD) people like me, that chair is so much more than a place to rest your derriere. It exists to provide ambiance. To create confines around a carefully crafted space. Remove that slim-line barrier and suddenly my cozy little writer’s haven is gawkishly exposed to the ENTIRE WORLD.

*shudder*shudder*twitch*

I usually stash my work tote on the seat – and then pointedly avoid eye-contact with any/all potential pillagers – to impede any/all pillaging…but sometimes I forget. And boy, are people quick to pounce/exploit said forgetfulness.

When the me forgetting, person pouncing thing happened a couple weeks ago, I bowed to social pressure and submissively acquiesced to the removal of my blessed chair’s multi-functional form. I feigned nonchalance while every fiber of my being quivered with anxiety. Unable to focus, I left ten minutes later.

I reallllly don’t want that to happen again today. I was on such a roll before MUTLMHDAT interrupted my flow with his presumptuous query. Staring fixedly at the ground, I stammer out something about how I’m not using the chair at the moment, but sometimes I like to put my feet up, etc. Basically, I make it real weird, real fast. MUTLMHDAT refuses to back down.

MUTLMHDAT: Well, do you mind if I just put some stuff on it while I sit here, then?

1. This is not a communal table situation. 2. Sit there?! He had motioned toward the bit of bench that separates my two-top from the two-top on my left. Here’s the thing – there’s a reason that part of the bench doesn’t have a table/chair. Because it’s NOT A SEAT. It’s merely a break in the chaos, allowing sunshine, oxygen, and that cool, calming fall breeze to reach each of us in turn. Plus, if he sits there, I’ll have to awkwardly maneuver around the (much more closely situated) table and chairs on my right any time I need to, you know, use the restroom or request one of my two complimentary tea re-steeps. Essentially, what he’s seeking is complete and total anarchy.

I decide it’s probably in everyone’s best interest if I just move.

Me: Here, actually, I’ll just move to one of the other tables*. Sorry, I’m just really weird and OCD about my space when I’m writing.

*Move to one of the at least thirteen other open tables, I should have said. Ahem.

MUTLMHDAT: (with plenty of attitude/condescension) I guess so.

OH. Ho-kay, sir. Hooo-kay.

The very sweet, adorable chick at the other table jumps in and offers her chair, looking at me, “You shouldn’t have to leave – it’s not your fault.”

MUTLMHDAT: I don’t think it’s mine either.

Well, you wouldn’t, would you. Also, kindly go back to the man cave you crawled out of.

The less sweet, less adorable chick at the table to my right offers her chair as well, scoffing at my perceived (slash, I get it, possibly actual) ridiculousness. F*ck you, (wo)man, you’re not the one getting crammed in like a sardine over her. Also, I forgot to mention that with him sitting there, I get none of the front-facing light. Front-facing light is very important to my creative process. Also also, WHY WON’T YOU PEOPLE JUST LET ME MOVE.

MUTLMHDAT takes VSAC’s chair and settles into his self-made (non)spot, shifting the shared cushion in the process. I rearrange everything, trying to restore some sense of order. When he gets up to get something (shifting the cushion again) (seriously, how do you manage to move the entire earth with what should be a simple up and down movement?), I turn to VSAC, “Sorry, I know I’m such a weirdo.”

VSAC: No, I totally get it.

I find myself wishing she were my friend so she could explain me to the general public more often.

MUTLMHDAT returns. More unfathomably raucous shifting. I realign all my things once again. And then again. And then again because I just can’t seem to get the vibe right anymore. Within the space of seven minutes, he decides to move to one of the other (aforementioned) (plentiful) empty spots on the patio. ALL THAT FOR SEVEN MINUTES (in what had once been our little piece of heaven)? Before VSAC and I are able to recreate our Edenic nook of yore, another patron avails herself of the awkward non-space. I decide to exit immediately, before anyone has a chance to stop me.

The next day, I painstakingly select a new spot to claim as my own – one with irrefutably unambiguous property lines. Because I’m super chill and flexible like that.

This is me earlier in the day - back when compliments were given freely/sans-strings.

The Scene: Molly Malone's Irish Pub, around 7p on a Saturday. ironysenabler and I had just finished up a marathon work sesh at LACMA ('sup, free wifi) and popped 'round for a quick wind-down/pre-night out cocktail.

I am exhausted. When ironysenabler runs to the ladies' room, I relax into the bar...and straight into introvert zone. It's been a long day and I still have a bit of an evening ahead.

Enter RANDOM MAN NEXT TO ME. He had been chatting with his work buddies (I assume they're work buddies - they're all wearing matching shirts of a non-athletic nature)/separates himself slightly from the group to gift me with his full, undivided attention.

I feel myself sigh, unsure if it's an internal or external exhale. Not only am I not in the mood to chat up a stranger, period, but RMNTM's quick jump to asking my name somehow feels too forward, too personal - or maybe it's just something in his delivery of the query. Whatever it is, I don't especially like it and decide to be honest about my ideal end to this situation. (Hint: It's the situation ending. Like now-ish, if at all possible.)

Me: (smiling beseechingly) I'm sorry, I just really don't feel like talking right now.RMNTM: (bristling) You can tell me your name. I was just trying to be friendly.

Well, yes - I can tell you my name. I possess that ability. But the point is, I don't want to. If you're really "just trying to be friendly", that friendliness should include respecting the fact that I'm just trying to be friendly while still making it clear that I do not wish to engage. Friend.

The situation ends with him shooting me a look of death, then whispering to his cronies who follow suit/add in a few eye-rolls of their own.

Cool. Welp, that was a fun getting complimented experience! Really wish that would happen more often.

.........

I later talked the situation over with a few guy friends - two of whom immediately defended RMNTM, saying he was just trying to be nice/what's the big deal/would it really have been that hard to just talk to the guy. One added, "You're a strong* female; you can take care of yourself if the conversation goes south." I will address these assertions/inquiries in a moment. (While seething inside.)

The third GF replied, "Well, you triggered his insecurities and self worth." Right. Obviously. So obvious, I realized, that my assessment of the potential for triggering of this kind has become innate - it has actually burrowed its way into my survival instinct. Each time I find myself in an encounter like the one with RMNTM, my subconscious shifts into high-alert mode, gauging the threat - the man's size, his demeanor, our surroundings, and, most importantly, the length of the dude's fuse - and pings me to act accordingly.

As innocuous as the specific sitch with RMNTM sounded to GFs 1 & 2, the reason it was "such a big deal"/the idea of a convo felt so taxing to me, is that these types of encounters are not few and far between. They vary in scale and aggression, but they happen multiple times per day. Multiple. Times. Per. Day. Having to constantly tailor your behavior to account for the fact that the wrong response might result in your being verbally or physically accosted is not a real good time. Especially if you're a strong* female. I would love nothing more than to tell every crudely amorous dude to kindly go f*ck himself - as I did to one such gentleman earlier this week. (Minus the 'kindly' part.) (That assessing subconscious of mine apparently didn't act fast enough to counter my severe indignation. Either that or I just blatantly/brazenly ignored the 'play nice' pings.) You know how the guy reacted? He spent the next three blocks swerving into my lane, flipping me off, and speeding ahead of me/slamming on his brakes. You know, a totally measured response. Sure, maybe RMNTM would never do that sort of thing, but he did exhibit the same sense of entitlement to my time and attention. If he were really "just trying to be nice", I wouldn't have been left feeling so ganged up on. (See paragraph 7 re: friendly, friendliness, friendly, friend.)

Long story not half as long as it could be, it can be f*cking exhausting to be a woman (and/or woman-child) in this patriarchy-ridden world, so if we tell you we're too tired to talk, don't blame us - blame your creepiest friend. (You know the one.) (Okay yeah, him too.)

*We both mean strong in the feminist-y sense. Not in the actual physical sense. Just ask my Pilates instructor.

A friend recently cast me in an episode of his web series as a drunk 18yo leaving the club with some sketchy dude. Most of the scene consists of me and said dude making out in the back of our Uber-like mode of transportation. I was relaying this fact to an actor friend, saying, "I have no idea why he didn't need me to audition for this role." (...that was a joke. I know exactly why.) Actor Friend skips right past the me-inferring-I-am-(er, used to be)(hi, future husband(s))-a-two-dolla-makeout-ho part and gets right to the actor-y part:

AF: You ever made out with someone on camera before?Me: (already laughing) (already thinking I'm hilarious) Please, I've never even made out with someone *sober* before.

...

AF:You're right. That was my fault.

One of us laughed much harder than the other one and one of us was much more silent, but I think it's that opposites thing that really makes this friendship work.

THE NEXT DAY:

Me:I'm going to start sending you daily affirmations, except instead make them reminders of all the things you love about me.

One Tuesday night, after a(n) (amazingly heart-piercing) show by the (amazingly heart-piercing) Amy Kuney at the Bootleg, my dear friend, ironysradiocheck and I are feeling a little prowly. We decide to hit up Tenants of the Trees to see if any of nature’s fine-looking (comma tall comma witty comma kind-hearted comma well-read comma well-dressed comma dark/broody) specimens are planted by the bar – or, anywhere within its walls. We’re not picky.

Door Guy:I like your stomach.

Why thank you very much, sir, for that uniquely worded compliment. (I was wearing a very cropped crop top.) (I am sharing this part of the story not only because I am super proud of my baby abs in training, but also because sometimes wearing half a shirt makes you a quick target for casually sexist, racist, disabled-ist a$$holes.)

Enter Attractive But Maybe Slightly Too Macho Dude.

I spot ABMSTMD on ironysradiocheck’s and my quick, catlike stroll around the patio. Eyes lock, gazes linger, etc etc. (The etc etc is the part where I then proceed to stare down everyone around him, just to let him know I’m, like, totally chill and I definitely wasn’t checking him out at all.)

ironysradiocheck doesn’t see anyone of immediate interest/ABMSTMD doesn’t seem to be making any moves from where he’s standing, so we stroll back to the bar area/debate calling it a night.

Me: Yeah, if no one intriguing appears by the end of this drink, I say we call it.

Just as we’re about to leave, I see ABMSTMD has maneuvered his way a few feet down the bar.

Me:That guy might be kind of cute.

I look at him. He looks back. I look away. (Just as chill/casual/nonchalant as before.)

ironysradiocheck:Oh yeah, dude. I think he’s coming over here. Score.

ABMSTMD:Hey.Me: Hey.

Well, this is starting off well. (ironysradiocheck has found something super interesting/enthralling a few feet away with which to occupy herself.)

ABMSTMD: ABMSTMD.Me: Stacie.

Please say this single syllable thing continues for the rest of our convo.

ABMSTMD: Did you see me checking you out earlier?

Welp. That hope was fleeting.

Me: Ha. I did.ABMSTMD: Why didn’t you say anything?Me: Why did it take you so long to say anything?ABMSTMD: Look, it’s 2016. I think that women should be equally responsible for initiating the conversation.

I love when guys are adamant about the need for gender equality – but, you know, starting with the ways in which it would make their lives easier as men.

Me: Ha. Let’s maybe start with the wage gap and work our way down from there. ABMSTMD: You ladies really just want it all don’t you.

I respond with an eyebrow arch.

ABMSTMD: Oh, calm down. I’m just kidding. Where are you from?Me: I’m originally from Nebraska. ABMSTMD: Midwestern stock. Nice. Here, what are you drinking?

The conversation continues as he orders my Tito’s soda with mint.

ABMSTMD: So how old are you, Stacie?Me: 32.ABMSTMD: Oh wow. Me: Oh wow?ABMSTMD: I just thought you were younger than that. Don’t worry about it – I never would have guessed you were that old.

That old. Don’t worry about it.

Me: Ha. I’m not too concerned about it.

I stare his non-baby face straight in the eyes.

Me: How old are you?ABMSTMD: 38.Me (smirking): 38. Wow.

He gets the ‘aren't you a little old to be hanging around bars, attempting to pick up 20-something chicks’ inference. Now that we’ve set the combative tone for the night!

I love how guys “always” make statements about all girls always doing dumb girl things.

Me: What do you mean?ABMSTMD: Just leave their friends with a total stranger. I mean, you’ve been talking to me, so you know I’m pretty normal, but she has no idea.Me: I mean, I guess sometimes we forget that we’re just walking prey.

Are we flirting or do we hate each other? I decide it’s probably both. He starts planning our wedding.

ABMSTMD: You don’t have any crazy in your family or anything, do you? I don’t want to end up with some weird Asperger’s kid or something.Me: You’re going to feel really bad about saying that when I tell you my brother’s autistic.ABMSTMD: Oh no, so you’ve got f*cked up genes?

Is he f*cking serious? Hate. It’s definitely hate.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, as the case may be), his friends arrive at this moment, halting the diatribe of death that had just begun its expletive-ridden exit from my mouth. They happen to be wonderful. We bond. We hug. We dance. I realize the two drinks I've had are going straight to my head.

Me: Is anyone hungry? I didn’t have time for dinner and I am starving. Amazing Friend #1:Omg yes. I could totally go for some food.AF #2: Yeah, same. Let’s do it. ABMSTMD: We could go to the diner by my place.

We pile into an Uber. But wait!, they say. First let’s just make a quick stop-off at a house party – there’s supposed to be a cool band playing! Sure, I say, pretending I’m not about to pass out from drunken starvation.

An hour later, it becomes clear this is no quick stop-off. I announce my planned departure via Uber.

ABMSTMD: Hey, I’ll go with you. Let’s go get you the food I promised. Sorry about these guys.

Somehow, the promise of food and the surprise of an (unnecessary) apology makes me forget my general abhorrence of him as a human. (Vodka, powers.)

At the diner:

ABMSTMD: Sorry, you can’t come over after – my dad’s staying with me for the week.

Oh good Lord. Abhorrence suddenly v v remembered.

Me: I think I’ll find a way to get over it.

He follows this with some other horrendous thing regarding our possible sexual future that I have blacked out due to an inherent distaste for vomiting. I order my omelette.

Later, when the waitress comes to clear our plates/ask if I’m all done with mine, ABMSTMD goes ahead and throws his answer in on top of my affirmative.

ABMSTMD: I think we can all agree she did a pretty good number on that one.

At what point do I have legal grounds to stab him.

The contempt-laden conversation stubbornly continues its journey back to the good ol’ days, eventually landing on the topic of interracial marriage.

ABMSTMD: I just don’t think it’s fair to the kids.

HI, 1952. So nice of you to drop by/add your antiquated views to the ever-growing pile of backwards bullsh*t.

Me: You mean, fair to the rest of us because they’re so beautiful? My nephew’s half black and is seriously the most perfect child you’ve ever seen in your life.ABMSTMD: So your sister f*cked a black guy, huh?Me: My sister dated, married, and started a family with an amazing guy/father who, yes, is a black man.

Where oh where is that knife when you need it. He pays the check before I’m able to summon the waitress.

Outside, waiting for Ubers:

ABMSTMD: Text me when you get home, okay?

I stare at him, taken aback by the sound of this gentlemanly statement coming from his very ungentlemanly face. He misinterprets the stare.

ABMSTMD: What? You didn’t expect me to drive you home when I live right around the corner, did you?

Thank God this battle is almost over. I am exhausted.

Me (V. slow. V. measured.): I don’t expect anything from you at all.

…

Two weeks later…Sunday night, 1:28a text message:

ABMSTMD: How you been?

Okay, that I did kind of expect. Sorry to leave you in suspense, ABMSTMD, but I’m gonna go ahead and tap out of this dear little donnybrook. It's been...really, really, tragically real.

My favorite Prince memory is also my favorite Coachella memory, which I guess is sort of fitting given the timing of this dire f*cking tragedy. It was 2008 and he was playing the main stage. I had never seen him live before, and I wanted to get right up in the action – but, you know, the kind of action that includes breathing room and excludes sweaty men/stepped on toes.

Our wristbands included side stage access but only for the smaller stages. I decided to do what I do best in situations where I want something I’m not supposed to have and feign rapturously excited ignorance. (It probably helped that the rapturous excitement part was one hundred percent real.) My friend and I skipped toward the backstage entrance, locking eyes with the security guy, shooting him the biggest smiles this side of the Mississippi, and throwing our hands up in the air to show him our (completely inadequate) wristbands. I made it through, but my friend got held back.

In any other situation, I would have turned back and gone with her – partly out of solidarity and partly because our group had no meet-up plan and my phone was deader than dead. But this was Prince. I worked my way to a prime spot side stage and swayed blissfully, the dorkiest grin plastered across my face, for almost two hours. At one point, he had the control panel turn off the lights, "We're jammin' tonight." I have never been so smitten/starstruck by such a tiny, tiny man. (Or anyone, really.) I've always been a total fangirl about his music, but seeing him in person was everything I thought it would be and more. The charisma. The smoke/mist. The white suit with silver studs. Sweet holy Jesus.

The friend who tried to sneak backstage with me never made it back to the rest of our group, so they had no idea where either of us were. My BFF was crying, realizing she might never see me again/I might be lost to the polo fields forever, until another friend pointed up to the Main Stage screens, “I found her.” One of Prince’s guys had brought a few of us females out onstage to dance (poorly, but enthusiastically). I’m not going to say my life peaked right then, but there hasn’t been a more epic moment yet.

Because Coachella in those days was a magical place full of magical human beings, where everything just sort of magically worked out, I made a couple friends backstage. One of whom took pictures he promised to send me - he never did but the offer really perked up my inner historian at the time, who couldn't believe I was having this insane experience with no way to document it. (It’s fine, these memories have somehow managed to survive where all others have perished. I can live with that.) Another of these newfound homies offered to give me a ride to the T-Mobile party I knew my friends would end up at in exchange for me getting him in. His name was Jake. At no point was I even mildly concerned about being alone in a car with a stranger, trucking out to some remote part of the desert. (If we both love Prince, we both must be decent human beings, right?! My BFF remains unconvinced on this point to this day.)

RIP Old-school Coachella, but mostly…RIP Prince, you ethereal, sparkly, purple-y, unbelievably engaging, otherworldly creative genius, you. Thank you for everything you've given us to survive on/dance to/belt out/sob over/look to for inspiration time and time and time again.

The traditional reformer might look a little like a medieval torture device with its straps, bands, and springs, but the soft grays and light woods of Eden’s and Fitmix’s machines soften the sadistic aesthetic.

There is nothing soft about CPP. (Including this woman’s boobs.)

That infomercial-ready signage covers the entire left wall of the studio. This has to be some sort of parody on LA workout trends, right? Right??

TBD.

CPP’s roided-up take on the reformer is called a megaformer. What’s the difference? As far as I can tell, the only real difference is that the megaformer makes you feel like you might not be cool/strong enough to use it. I have friends – friends who never talk about their workout fetishes – who have recently come out of the closet as megaformer evangelists, speaking of it with a Crossfitter-type reverence. Online article after online article waxes poetic on its superpowers. Amazingly, none of these endorsements include any actual specifics on actual/miraculous physical differences between this machine and the OG. What they do focus on is the aggravated intensity of the megaformer workout.

Welp. I guess we’re about to find out.

I spend the first three minutes of class staring at the megaformer in confusion. Most of the standard mechanisms are hidden, making it much less intuitive to set-up and use. This delay does not go over well with my very muscular instructor, whom we shall call Mr. Boot Camp, if only to relay the fervor of his demeanor.

MBC: ARE YOU READY ARE YOU IN IT ARE YOU SET UP HAVE YOU EVER DONE THIS BEFORE?

(This barking takes place approximately three inches from my face, but I still have trouble making out some of the words over the bass-heavy jams blaring from the speakers.)

Me:Yeah, well I mean, I do, like old-school Pil –.

I stammer as I stumble on the shifting carriage.

MBC:THIS ISN’T OLD-SCHOOL PILATES. ARE YOU READY TO SWEAT? BECAUSE IF YOU’RE NOT READY TO SWEAT –.

He leans down to make adjustments on my megaformer, leaving that ultimatum unfinished.

If I’m not, I should what? Leave? Don’t tempt me. Also what makes you think I’m not ready to get schweddy, Sir?? I was an athlete. Once upon a time. Two decades ago.

I am offended and annoyed, but also feel a deep desire to prove myself. Hello, high school insecurities, so nice to see you again. He shows me how to adjust the knobs on the machine. One of these knobs immediately strips off half my thumbnail. This is not starting off well.

It gets slightly better a few songs in. Most of the exercises are the same as my “old-school” classes, but I dig the newly athletic vibe. And MBC stops accosting me for a while, letting me do my own thing in the back row.

When it comes time to switch to the other leg, I’m feeling pretty decent about things. I’ve got the machine figured out, I know what’s coming next, my muscles are nice and warm…

MBC: It’s easier on this side isn’t it?

I nod, feeling quite self-satisfied.

MBC: That’s because what one side of your body lacks, the other side makes up for. Remember how weak this leg was right here?

He looks up at me, waiting for a response. All signs of satisfaction, self and otherwise, have left my face. I nod. Yes, I remember the pathetic feebleness of my right inner thigh, thank you so much for asking.

Onto the outer thighs we go! I can do this movement all day – or at least I thought I could. Apparently I’ve been doing it wrong my entire Pilates career.

I look at him, caught somewhere between an urge to punch him and running to hide in the corner.

MBC:Think about a snake.

Me:A what?

MBC:A snake. Think about a snake.

I think about a snake. Said thought doesn’t go very far. MBC can tell.

MBC: Think about it – if a snake couldn’t squeeze its prey, it would starve, right?

I think about it. Sure, I guess? I’m not really up on the snake’s wilderness meal plan. I guess I sort of assumed they could get something with their fangs, too – or that each breed of snake might be different. Like garter snakes – those sweet little guys couldn’t possibl –

He interrupts this significantly longer thought process to bring me back to the crisis at hand.

MBC:The snake needs to squeeze its prey, right?

I nod, because I’m pretty sure yes is the only option here. MBC pats the cushy area on the outside of my thigh.

MBC:This is the prey. Squeeze that prey. If you want to get rid of it, you have to squeeze it.

He just referred to my, erm, wobbly bits as prey. Ok, fair. But who’s the snake in this scenario? Clearly, I haven’t been starving – I mean, I think that “prey” makes that pretty clear.

While I mull this over in my head, the booming beat comes to a stop. Class is over.

Holy f*ck I survived. I won’t say I thrived, but I will say I’m a big fan of the 45-minute situation. I thought for sure we had another 15 coming our way. I can feel the Stockholm Syndrome already beginning to set in.

ironyfreemodellawyer and I wipe our machines and leave class, unsure if that was the absolute best or absolute worst experience of our lives.

The next day, back in my beloved Fitmix class, I find myself squatting lower, sweating more, and yes, even squeezing the f*ck out of that prey.

Apparently, a vintage truck does not provide clear enough perspective - next time I'm standing in front of a measuring tape.

Existing as a private, membership-based dating app populated by the kings and queens of Instagram, Raya is cool, hip, and always chill AF. (The kind of chill that shows just how DGAF it is about everything by doing things like abbreviating six letter metaphor vehicles.)

In keeping with this VSCO lens on life, user profiles are clean, filtered, and devoid of any extra information. Standard personal stat bubbles that clutter the pages of more mainstream (read: lame) dating sites have been replaced by a single blank box – a canvas for Raya’s artsy souls to paint whatever picture of themselves they think might intrigue/attract potential suitors. For many such souls, this does not seem to include much. A guesstimated (because I can’t be bothered with things like numbers) (what, I’m a dreamer, not a mathematician, GD) 90% of the profiles I’ve come across have absolutely nothing written/or emoji-ed in that space.

Fine, whatever – I don’t need to hear about your vinyl collection or the fact that you’re just looking for someone you can laugh your way through life with, but can a girl get some basic facts?? Like, possibly…your height?

For some reason, a fair number of dudes seem to view this as an inane request. The few times I’ve seen it listed, said lister has qualified the number with some version of an eye-roll. “Since it seems to be such a big deal to some of you…”

Is height a big deal? I mean, it’s not the biggest deal. No one’s dying over it, at least not as far as I know*. But are we all really supposed to pretend it doesn’t factor into our realm of attraction in any way, shape, or form? I, personally, think I have a right to know ahead of time if a date’s going to end with a man standing en pointe to hug my waist. (Mostly because I have a certain proclivity toward crop tops and that’s a little too much skin on skin action for a first date. I’m not that kind of girl.**)

Fortunately, just when I thought I was secretly popping crazy pills (and wondering what they were/how I could get some more of them), two vertically-challenged Raya clients stepped forward to show me that there are at least a couple short dudes out there who don’t want to be surprised by my lanky a$$ either.

VCRC1:

VCRC1 and I had been talking for weeks. We covered all of our hopes, fears, darkest secrets, etc (aka spent the entire time trying to one-up each others’ jokes) when he decided to dig in on the personal Q’s:

VCRC1:Hey, how tall are you?

A quick gander at my profile page would have answered this question for him…

But hey, who am I to judge a lazy right swipe? (I totally judged. But then convinced myself he was too mesmerized by my obvious beauty to do any reading and felt better about the entire situation.)

Me:5’ 11”

Almost instantaneously, our conversation disappeared. I found myself staring at the main page with all my matches. WTF. It took me several minutes, an iPad restart, and some deep soul searching to realize I had been brutally rebuffed. He had “unmatched” me. Not a word – not even a waving hand emoji. Just gone. My ego wanted to be offended, but I had to admit I admired his cutthroat approach. We’re all busy people here; why mince words – or even use them at all?

VCRC2:

VCRC2 and I matched one glorious day last fall. Initial pleasantries faded into a silent winter. At the start of the New Year, VCRC2 picked up right where we left off:

VCRC2:How are you?

…

Me: Slightly older, just as tall, and hopefully skinnier than the last time we talked?

We spent the next three weeks trading sporadic responses. Finally, he asked if I would like to get a drink. Five days later, I said, yes. Ten days later, he said, “Cool”.

By the time we managed to get off the app and into each other’s phones, we had (very) technically been speaking for six months. It would be six months and one week before we made it here:

VCRC2: Are you around this weekend?

I know – it’s a beautiful thing to see a miracle in action.

Me: I’m around tomorrow. The rest of the wkend is booked up w baby showers, bdays, and the like.

VCRC2:Maybe we could meet up tom night at some point. You gonna be in weho?

Maybe? WTF does “maybe” mean.

Me: Yeah that would be fun. Close…I’m in Beverly Hills.

VCRC2: Great let me know if you’re free.

Let you know if I’m free? Didn’t I just say – you know what, never mind. Let’s just keep this moving.

VCRC2:Odd question. But how tall are u?

Ahhh THERE IT IS. You have got to be mother*cking kidding me. There are three lines on my profile. Three. Wouldn’t these dudes want to do a quick scan of the written portion of my social exam, if only to discern that I’m not a complete idiot/have a basic grasp on words/grammar before inviting me out on the town? Apparently not. Again, I totally judged. But then convinced myself that in addition to looking super pretty in my carefully selected assortment of photos, I also look super smart. And then I felt better about the entire situation. (Except for that 'u'. How lazy do you have to be to chop off the y and the o? They're on the same exact keyboard line. Criminy, the y is right next door. I digress.)

…

Me:5’11”

VCRC2: Oh wow. Really really tall.

Me: Haha are you not really really tall?

VCRC2: I’m def not. I’m shorter than you. Prob 5’10” or ‘11”.

Probably?

Me:Haha you don’t know your own height?

VCRC2:I grow every year.

So 5’7”. Cool.

At this point, I don’t know how to respond. Are we still doing this? It feels weird to be like, ok so we should probably just call this, then, no? Especially after it’s taken us more than six months to get to this juncture. And who knows, maybe we’ll totally bond on a friend vibe and turn out to be BFF homies for life.

…

I decide to sleep on it. Mostly in hopes that he’d be the one to put the kibosh on the whole situation. (I have a lot of friends already.)

At 1:37pm the next day, I decide it’s probably a good idea to clarify our (non?) plans for the evening.

Me: Haha well if you still want to meet up at some point, I should be done w things around 8p.

VCRC2:Don’t you want a guy taller than you?

YES, YES I DO.

Me:Haha yes, but that feels so rude to say.

Because, you know, I secretly think that all diminutive men are harboring nothing but shame over their shortcoming(s).

VCRC2: Well then there you go.

There you go indeed. We end on a positive note – he tells me to let him know if I have any shorter friends for him, I tell him to do the same on the tall and broad-shouldered front, he says that’s highly unlikely because he doesn’t hang out with many meatheads, I say eh to each their own.

And then I go over to my (equally tall) best friend’s apartment for a Netflix binge fest, because every story deserves a happy ending. (And at least one collar bone to collar bone hug.)

*If you do know someone who is/has/was, please let me know. I’m always on the lookout for new and different hypothetical events to be unreasonably terrified of.**To my friends who are like, “Dude, Stace, don’t pretend you don’t love making out on date 1/every date in general.” Fair point, but I always have ‘em keep those hands where I can see ‘em, if you know what I mean. K almost aways. ... (You know who you are.)

Mr. Nice Guy in the car in front of me has now let six cars, two trucks, and one very large semi into our lane, ahead of us. Listen, sir - I don't know what kinds of sins you're trying to erase, but do your penance on your own time. Some of us would like to get home today.

I’m sorry, what? Perched unattractively near the bottom shelves of the Bristol Farms refrigerated section, arms loaded with two different brands of chocolate coconut water, hair greasy and unkempt, make-up non-existent, I strain my neck around to see who, in their right mind*, would issue such an unfounded compliment. (Yes, I had already determined that the comment was directed toward me. Because I like to balance my self-deprecation/insecurities with a solid dose of narcissism.)

Ah, yes. This guy. This guy would issue that compliment. Boyish face with an actor-y, fresh-off-the-United-flight from some Midwestern suburbia vibe. I squint through my near-sightedness, trying to decide if I think he’s attractive or not. TBD.

Me:Aw, thank you. That’s so nice of you to say.

He shuffles self-consciously two and a half feet away, staring unseeing into the glass case of groceries, side-glancing my way every three seconds or so.

I immediately feel the need to make him feel comfortable. One, because I’m fairly confident he’s new in town and I want him to know that there are nice people here and two, because, judging by his demeanor, it had to be fairly intimidating to [politely] approach a female in public and I’ve always believed such behavior should receive positive reinforcement.

I offer some chatter on the obvious health benefits of sugar-infused sugar water. He accepts. Er, sort of. He counters by pointing my attention toward his own favorite beverage, insisting I give it a try. He’s almost a tad too insistent. Slow down there, Turbo; this lady makes her own decisions -- especially when it comes to hydration.

The conversation progresses [slowly]. I learn that his name is Mike**, he’s an actor (I knew it), he’s been in LA for less than a year (God, I’m good at this game), he’s sober (I take this moment to tell him how I’m still hungover from the night before), and he lives with his manager one street away from me (Oh goodie?).

Mike: Is it hard to make friends out here, or is that just me?

Me:Oh man. I mean, I’m just glad I went to school out here. Most of my friends went to SC with me. I feel like people’s circles out here can be pretty closed. It’s probably a little tough to try and get in there.

Mike: Yeah. I moved out here not knowing anyone. Would you – uh would you mind if I got your number – just to like hang out sometime?

I’ve pretty much decided that he’s not at all my type, but I figure I can go to lunch with the guy. He seems fairly non-threatening. I give him my number and open my mouth to say goodbye. My exit plan gets, um, interrupted.

Mike: Well, uh, would you, um, I mean, would you want to go out sometime? I mean, I don’t know if I’m your type, but I know I would really like to go out with you.

GAH. So sweet. I am so bad at saying no to nice people. So I don’t.

Me: Um, sure, yeah, that’d be fun.

And by fun, I mean probably super awkward and weird.

Mike:Ok great. Um. When?

Me:Uh, well, the next two weeks are pretty gnarly, schedule-wise.

Mike:Gnarly. Wow. I haven’t heard that in a long time.

Me:Ha yeah it’s a favorite of mine.

I’m slowly edging backward, hoping this convo is coming to a close.

Me:Well, I should probably –

Mike: So you’re not free tomorrow night?

Me:Tomorrow? Uh no. I’m actually heading out to Palm Springs for a bachelorette this weekend.

Too many details, Stacie. Way too many details.

Mike: Ok well –

Me:Just hit me up in a couple weeks and we’ll figure out a time.

Mike: Ok. Um. How do you feel about guys with kids?

Oh God.

Me:Do you have a kid?

Mike: Yeah, I’ve got a ten-month-old little girl.

Great. Now if I turn him down, it’s going to seem like I’m doing it just because he has a kid. Awesome.

Mike: Look, here she is.

Mike proceeds to take me through an entire album's worth of photos. My left arm is about to break off from the weight of my basket, but there’s no way I’m setting it down and risking prolonging this whole situation.

Me:So cute. Well, I really gotta go. It was nice to meet you.

This time I don’t wait for interjections as I make a break for the cash register. He follows close behind. Seriously? There are two other open lanes. Pretty sure you left your social etiquette back in aisle three, Mikey.

Mike: I really would love – I mean, I hope you really do want to go out with me. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. And you seem nice, not like most of the girls I’ve met out here.

Oh God. Please say it a little louder; I'm not sure the guys back in the deli area heard you. This is excruciating. Placating smile. Eye-contact avoidance. Deep breaths.

Outside, breathing in the sweet smell of freedom, I attempt to figure out how I’ll get out of the impending date without hurting this guy’s feelings. Despite his social awkwardness and bizarrely slow cadence, he seems like a well-meaning dude just looking for a little human connection.

Mid-mental deliberation, I receive this text message:

Mike: Awesome and great to meet you. Honestly I am direct and forward but text can be miss construed [sic] but I’d love to do [sic] out and see you soon.

Just so you remember me

Oh man. A headshot?? What am I supposed to say to that? I decide to respond with something nice, but appropriately non-committal:

Me: Awesome! Great meeting you as well. Thanks for brightening up my afternoon :)

If he reaches out to set an actual date, I’ll find a way to politely decline, but I figure we should be good for now.

…

Back at home, I grab my phone out of my bag:

Mike:We’re [sic] you attracted to me?

Dear sweet Jesus. Is he serious?

Five minutes pass.

Mike:Be honest if that’s ok?

Gahh. Do I really have to answer this?

Mike: And an artistic pic so?

Welp. This has officially gotten weird.

I decide to set my BlackBerry aside as I delve into some work.

One hour later…

Mike: Hello? I don’t want to annoy you or text too much. But text me I guess. Let me know if your [sic] interested. Or if you were attracted to me.

Mike: Text me or when you can. I won’t be annoying you.I do want to know you. But lett [sic] me when you can hang thanks. Have fun in Palm and keep me posted.

You won’t be annoying me?? I think it might be a little too late for that.

Why does “I want to know you” sound like a threat?

Palm is not an accepted nickname for Palm Springs. (I knew that was one detail too many.)

He waits another thirty minutes before unleashing this diatribe:

Mike:*let me know when you can hang out and if you want to get tea soon. I’m free if you keep me posted and have a safe trip and fun time in Palm Springs. Would love to know you and meet you. You are one of the most beautiful woman [sic] I’ve seen and your eyes I can’t say anything bad. Don’t want to scare you im just very complimentary. And I may seem aggressive but dinner time. Talk soon hope we talk.

So many gulps. You don’t want to scare me? In that case, perhaps you would like to back the f*ck off? Also, please heed your spellcheck’s suggestions. (Also also – when did “I can’t say anything bad” become a compliment?)

For some reason, I still think Mike is going to get the very silent hint. Oh, the naiveté of youth(ish).

9:17am the next morning:

Mike: Hey you drive safe and have fun. Do you have a kid?

…

I just...I'll just leave that one right there. It was quickly followed by a call from a blocked number. I’m not saying it was him, I’m just saying I wasn’t about to answer it to find out.

Two days later. 10:58pm:

Mike:How was your bachelorette party beautiful

Still in progress, not that it’s one iota of your business?

The next afternoon, I receive a text message from a number I don’t recognize: “Hey”. One quick Google search links it to Mike's Instagram profile. Dude. DUDE.

My BFF and I debate whether I should reply and ask him to please stop contacting me. At this point, I’m sort of afraid he’s teetering on the brink of the deep end, and I don’t really want to see his desperate entreaties plummet into rage. Since, you know, he basically knows where I live. (Note to self: Be more mysterious.)

After another phone call, a lengthy, meandering voicemail, and a text message two days later, I decide to make it clear that I’m just not that into him.

Me: Please do not contact me anymore.

Apparently this was confusing to him.

Mike:Um why. By the way your nips were showing when we met your [sic] being uncool.

Classy. There goes that nice guy idea.

Mike: Hook up buddies what’s your deal I and you were both attracted to each other hunn

Oh, ‘I and you’ were, were we.

Mike: Stacie what’s your deal explain why your [sic] being a snob. You have a boyfriend?

No, I don’t have a boyfriend; I just think *you’re a crazy psychotic sociopath.

Me:I’m not interested. Please do not contact me again.

Mike:Why? Why did you give your number? You make no sense

Out of pity. It’s a bad habit I’m working on changing. Thank you for helping me get there faster.

Mike:I did nothing and wanted to get to know you because you were attracted to me and so was i. I don’t get why your [sic] [this dude really needs to figure out his yours] acting weird I’m being honest and direct I am sorry if you think I’m into you but idk you so your [sic] [obviously] being crazy

Erm, some might say you did too much. Also, I think the word you’re looking for is ‘dismissive’. I am being dismissive. You, sir, are being crazy. In the purest sense of the word.

Mike: Whatever Stacie good luck and best to you. Sorry that you feel the way you do. Your [I’m not even going to bother anymore] beautiful but you must question yourself why your 45 and single. Bye and sorry deleting you

(While also spending two and a half hours on the phone with AT&T attempting to block your number.***)

*HAHAHAHAHAHA. Guess I called that one.**This is his real name. Just in case, you know, my body is found raped and murdered. I want the police to have some sort of a lead. Since Mike's such a unique name and stuff.***My favorite part of that conversation: “I honestly have never owned a BlackBerry and no one here seems to be familiar with them at all. Let me brainstorm here….” Duly noted.

UPDATE #1: I just got an email from some other chick who had pretty much the exact same experience with this dude last week. He even sent the same two scintillating photos. Apparently he works at Brooklyn Bagels on S. Beverly, so uh, all females may want to go elsewhere for their carb-fix.

UPDATE #2:He apparently just found me on Tinder. "Your 31?" Shocking, I know. "Just saw you on tinder. So your single but why the attitude and you know that God things happen when your nice. Anyway really wish we could have gotten to know each other but I'm sorry I was not your type or whatever. I mean I text and communicate many people don't know how to then they look like the bad guy and so anyway maybe one day you can give me a shot." ...Maybe one day, Mikey. Maybe one dark, desperate, dystopian day. *shuddershuddertwitch*

UPDATE #3: Three months later...just when I thought I'd never hear from him again:

Update #4: Apparently he's hanging on through 2016. So nice of him to think of me at 2am this morning!!

Today in things that happen with a BlackBerry that people with iPhones don’t understand:

One of the [very] few [and very far between] flaws with the BlackBerry is that emojis don’t turn up as super cute, full-color, emotion-laden graphics. They show up like this:

Not a huge deal, right? Hopefully most conversations amongst late 20/early 30 year olds don’t rely heavily on illustrations?

…Sure.

A few years ago, I was texting with a guy I was seeing* at the time. We shall call him Chad**. Chad liked to make fun of me for the always long and generally meandering stories I like to tell. After one such story, he sent me three emojis, knowing I would be unable to decipher them.

Me:Those better be ponies.

His nickname for me was Pony. I don't remember exactly why, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't for whatever reason you're thinking it was.

Chad: Two ponies and a princess.

Adorable, right?

Fast-forward two days. One of my nearest and dearest takes pity on my lost-in-translation soul and offers up a piece of advice:

N&D:“You know you can see those on your iPad, right?”

Me:“What do you mean?”

N&D: “If you email yourself any of these texts, you’ll be able to see the emoijs.”

How glorious! Also effort-consuming, but, you know, worth it? (I used to have a lot of extra time/energy on my hands.)